never get out of here."
"Shouldn't someone fetch a doctor or something?"
"She's in Hell, boy, what exactly do you think a doctor's going to be able to do for her?"
Yes, well, there was that.
"Just keep your mouth shut," the old man said, "or you're going to draw attention. Remember, you look like you're talking to yourself, nobody can see me."
"Lucky them," I muttered. "We're here to see a woman called Agrat."
"Pretty name."
"Stop your damned talking." He actually kicked me slightly in the back of the legs as I moved ahead of him. The old man had a temper on him and no mistake.
"She will be dominating one of the card tables," he continued, "she can never resist a game of chance, and like all the first family she's powerful enough to win."
I looked around. A thin creature, its arms and legs jointed the wrong way, like those of an insect, turned its single eye towards me and grimaced.
"Just passing through," I said, tapping the brim of my hat. It extended a flat tongue, like a thick slice of ham and slapped the side of its face with it. Whether this was an insult or just personal hygiene it was impossible to say.
I nearly stepped on another member of the clientele as it slithered its way between the tables, an albino worm that had at least gone to the trouble of putting on a collar and tie. Say what you like about the residents of Hell, they know how to dress. Or not, I was forced to concede, when presented with the dangling pecker of a horned fellow as he turned towards me. I think I must have gasped (the damn thing was dragging its tip on the carpet; as dicks went it was pretty damn startling). Its owner smiled, apparently pleased to cause such a response. I tried to smile back but that was made difficult by the fact that the pecker rose up independently and nodded at me.
"Good evening," it said, in a voice of thin, expelled air, "best of luck at the tables."
"Oh, you too," I said.
The penis somehow managed to look gracious as it bowed and then turned away, tapping a woman on the shoulder so that it and its following owner could get past. "Over there," said the old man, pointing towards the far corner where I could just about glimpse a tall, brightly-coloured headdress.
Agrat gave the appearance of being a woman in her fifties. She was beautiful, having the sort of pale, gentle radiance you see on old paintings and soap adverts. Beauty that doesn't have to work at it. Her headdress was built from several layers of silk, varying hues of blues and reds.
When she laughed, as she did often, it rustled as if caught by a gentle breeze exposing light blonde hair beneath. She wore a dress that made her look even more like royalty, the fabric seeming to change colour slightly as she moved. Everything she did gave the impression of both power and humility, the sort of person who could burn down your house and you'd find yourself thanking them for it. Terrifying grace. I'd all but fallen in love for the second time that evening.
"You need to join her game," the old man said.
"But I'm no good at cards," I said, trying to keep my mouth as still as possible, no doubt offering up a terrible, false grimace.
"You won't have to be, just do exactly as I tell you and say what I tell you to say. I'll do all the hard work, you just get to translate."
"And who's money they going to take when I lose?"
"I told you before, nobody's interested in money here. We need what she can offer and the only way we'll be able to get it is if we win it from her. Agrat gives nothing away unless she really has to. Let's get some chips."
"Without money?"
"What can money buy you in Hell? The thing people value here is experience, life lived.
Like the ticket seller who took a memory from you for a while. Remember, everyone here is either dead or were never truly alive in the first place: demons, conceptual entities and the such. The more intense the experience the more valuable it is. You can either loan those experiences to people—like the
"Shouldn't someone fetch a doctor or something?"
"She's in Hell, boy, what exactly do you think a doctor's going to be able to do for her?"
Yes, well, there was that.
"Just keep your mouth shut," the old man said, "or you're going to draw attention. Remember, you look like you're talking to yourself, nobody can see me."
"Lucky them," I muttered. "We're here to see a woman called Agrat."
"Pretty name."
"Stop your damned talking." He actually kicked me slightly in the back of the legs as I moved ahead of him. The old man had a temper on him and no mistake.
"She will be dominating one of the card tables," he continued, "she can never resist a game of chance, and like all the first family she's powerful enough to win."
I looked around. A thin creature, its arms and legs jointed the wrong way, like those of an insect, turned its single eye towards me and grimaced.
"Just passing through," I said, tapping the brim of my hat. It extended a flat tongue, like a thick slice of ham and slapped the side of its face with it. Whether this was an insult or just personal hygiene it was impossible to say.
I nearly stepped on another member of the clientele as it slithered its way between the tables, an albino worm that had at least gone to the trouble of putting on a collar and tie. Say what you like about the residents of Hell, they know how to dress. Or not, I was forced to concede, when presented with the dangling pecker of a horned fellow as he turned towards me. I think I must have gasped (the damn thing was dragging its tip on the carpet; as dicks went it was pretty damn startling). Its owner smiled, apparently pleased to cause such a response. I tried to smile back but that was made difficult by the fact that the pecker rose up independently and nodded at me.
"Good evening," it said, in a voice of thin, expelled air, "best of luck at the tables."
"Oh, you too," I said.
The penis somehow managed to look gracious as it bowed and then turned away, tapping a woman on the shoulder so that it and its following owner could get past. "Over there," said the old man, pointing towards the far corner where I could just about glimpse a tall, brightly-coloured headdress.
Agrat gave the appearance of being a woman in her fifties. She was beautiful, having the sort of pale, gentle radiance you see on old paintings and soap adverts. Beauty that doesn't have to work at it. Her headdress was built from several layers of silk, varying hues of blues and reds.
When she laughed, as she did often, it rustled as if caught by a gentle breeze exposing light blonde hair beneath. She wore a dress that made her look even more like royalty, the fabric seeming to change colour slightly as she moved. Everything she did gave the impression of both power and humility, the sort of person who could burn down your house and you'd find yourself thanking them for it. Terrifying grace. I'd all but fallen in love for the second time that evening.
"You need to join her game," the old man said.
"But I'm no good at cards," I said, trying to keep my mouth as still as possible, no doubt offering up a terrible, false grimace.
"You won't have to be, just do exactly as I tell you and say what I tell you to say. I'll do all the hard work, you just get to translate."
"And who's money they going to take when I lose?"
"I told you before, nobody's interested in money here. We need what she can offer and the only way we'll be able to get it is if we win it from her. Agrat gives nothing away unless she really has to. Let's get some chips."
"Without money?"
"What can money buy you in Hell? The thing people value here is experience, life lived.
Like the ticket seller who took a memory from you for a while. Remember, everyone here is either dead or were never truly alive in the first place: demons, conceptual entities and the such. The more intense the experience the more valuable it is. You can either loan those experiences to people—like the
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